Making Marion (18 page)

I was seventeen when Declan was arrested for attempting to rape his twelve-year-old next-door neighbour. He hadn't realized her daddy, a lorry driver rumoured to have spent several years transporting unmentionable items for a paramilitary organization in Belfast, was working nights that week. Declan broke into the kitchen where Anna Malone was eating a slice of pizza for her lunch. He grabbed her and held a knife to her neck while he communicated his intentions. As he pushed her to the ground, Anna grabbed the edge of the red and white checked tablecloth upon which rested her plate, a glass of orange squash and a heavy metal oven tray she had cooked the pizza on. She managed to bring the whole lot crashing to the ground.

Anna's father, a man who slept the fragile sleep of a part-time terrorist, woke up. Declan had a broken arm, three broken ribs and a punctured lung on his admittance to custody. Two nights later, while I agonized about whether I should speak to the police or not, an unknown intruder sneaked into his hospital room – somehow, mysteriously, avoiding the watchful eye of the police guard – and stabbed a fillet knife into his heart.

It was yet another tragedy to befall my mess of a family. The collective view of the town was that Declan had “always been a queer one”. Auntie Paula and Uncle Keith moved across town, then
to County Claire, and finally Queensland in Australia, trying to escape Declan's ghost. His younger brother, Benny, dealt with the situation by joining the police.

The evening after Declan's death, Eamonn found me in the woods. He sat down on the log next to me. Without saying anything, he kissed me then, for the first time.

Later, I wouldn't hold his hand as we walked back through the town.

“It's weird, isn't it? Do you feel weird?”

I nodded. I felt like running into the sea until it reached above my head, and then keeping walking until I couldn't walk any more.

“Don't blame yourself, Marion.”

I ignored that stupid comment.

“Well, if you're to blame, then I am too. I'm more to blame than you are. I could've actually said something.”

We had reached the end of my road, where Eamonn usually said goodbye so we could both avoid my mother's barbs. I leaned against the wall there.

“It wasn't just once.”

Eamonn shrugged. “I figured that much.”

“I knew what he was. What if there were others, Eamonn? It's been two years. Who's it been for the last two years?”

He kicked at a stone on the pavement. “If you had told somebody, it would have been your word against his.”

I knew this. And back then I had no words with which to stand against him.

“And your ma, Marion. She wouldn't have backed you up.”

“She'd have blamed me. Probably called me a slut with a guilty conscience.”

Eamonn rested his hands gently either side of my face. “You had enough going on. You did what you could.”

My laugh was bitter. “And what was that?”

“You survived. Which, considering the circumstances, was pretty impressive.”

I pushed off from the wall and made to go. Eamonn grabbed my hand, and began to move with me.

“What are you doing? Let go. She'll see.”

He stared straight ahead, carried on walking. “I'm seeing my girlfriend to her door.”

Eamonn was no fool. He knew by picking that day, of all days, the last thing I thought about before I went to bed was not murder, or attempted rape, or wrists bleeding from burning ropes, or a ruined bra. It was the soft lips and gentle smile of Eamonn Brown. My boyfriend.

S
carlett came to see me a couple of days after she returned to England. I'd spent the day spreading mulch over the flowerbeds, and now stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing away the dirt lodged under my nails.

“Hey, Marion! I brought dinner.” She placed a dish of lasagne on my tiny table, scooping out two portions while I poured juice into glasses and chopped cucumber and peppers to make salad.

We ate in silence for a while. I knew what was coming.

“I hear you are expectin' me not to fire Jake's ass, or to fire my shotgun at it, either.”

I put down my fork. “You have a gun?”

“Keep eatin' while you talk, Marion. This might take a while and Scarlett's Sunshine Lasagne is too good to let it go cold.”

“How is he?”

“Oh, I knew you'd be worryin' about him! He's crawlin' with self-loathin', not sleepin'. But I hear he's not had a drink since New Year's Eve. That's what, two weeks? It's a start. Archie's been lookin' out for him, arranged some support group in Mansfield for him to go see.” She fixed her all-seeing eye on mine. “Can you tell me straight what happened? The Peace and Pigs is a place of second, third and thousandth chances, but I will boot his backside right outta here if this was anything more than a lost, angry young boy with a perception pickled in alcohol. And I mean it about shootin' him.”

“I don't know. I'm terrified of making this into something it wasn't. But I'm just as scared of being one of those women who allows this stuff to go on by not speaking out.”

We spoke for a long time. Eventually Scarlett called Brenda for an off-the-record conversation. We talked some more, and finally reached a first step forwards. Scarlett would contact Samuel in the morning, to ask if he would agree to hire Jake for now. If nothing else, it would give us time to think. Before she left, Scarlett asked if I would mind hearing her lesson on surviving “sweaty, fumbly fingers that squiggle their fungussy way into places they are not welcome and have no right to be”. I didn't mind. It was not Jake's fingers I was thinking about.

“You're doin' it, honey. Just keep on at it.”

That was it?

“You know it is never your fault, not something you did, or said, or wore. And you know not all men think they can push women around. Actually, most don't. I know you know there is nothing shameful here, or spoiled. It happened. It sucked. Sometimes you might need to talk it over, or cry, or kick a chicken. It'll make you a little wary of every man, but that ain't always a bad thing, as long as you can figure out how to move past it. Keep your chin up, and keep on keepin' on. Find a bunch of great women – and men – open a flashy box of chocolates and laugh with them so hard your diaphragm don't know what hit it.”

Scarlett pulled up one side of her mouth. Her eyes were deep pools of sadness. “What else can you do?”

Once my bruises had faded through green and yellow to a faint smudge, I took Pettigrew and cycled to Hatherstone. Jake was shocked when I rang his buzzer, but what was he going to do? Leave me standing on the doorstep?

He looked as bad as Scarlett had said. Even worse than I expected. His eyes couldn't keep still, and his knee jerked up and down as he sat on the sofa facing me.

He cringed. “I don't know how to say anything that won't sound like worthless excuses.”

“Say it anyway.”

He rubbed his hands over his hair, hanging greasy and unkempt below his collar.

“I'm sorry.” His voice cracked. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand.

“I forgive you.”

“Don't.” Jake released a shuddering breath. “Every time my mum hit my dad, or threw a vase at him, or smashed his head into the wall, she would wait until she sobered up, then beg for his forgiveness. Every time I prayed he would refuse. That this would be the time he threw her out, hit her back, pressed charges. He never did. And she always did it again.”

“Will you do it again?”

He stared at the floor. “I went to the police.”

“To the station?”

“I asked them to arrest me.”

“What happened?”

“Brenda signed me up to see a shrink – said there was nothing she could do if you denied anything happened.” He shook his head. “I'd rather face a judge.”

There was silence for a few minutes before I stood up.

“I'll see you around, then?”

Jake looked up at me. “I don't think so. Not for a while. Not until I've sorted my head out.”

I had to stop more than once as I cycled home through the trees, to gather myself together. I'd thought I was safe with Jake because he was my friend. I'd been wrong, but I had learned something. I didn't need my friends to be perfect. I didn't want them to be. I needed honesty, and to know that I didn't have to be perfect either. I would miss Jake.

 

It was one of those days where the sunlight never quite manages to push back the winter gloom. I found Scarlett in the reception office, surrounded by piles of scattered papers.

“Morning, Scarlett.”

She blinked at me through tortoiseshell glasses. “Oh. Hi, Marion. Isn't this your day off?”

“Yes. I'm going into Nottingham. Do you need anything?”

Wrinkling up her brow, she thought for a moment. “I think Valerie could do with some more thick socks. Her feet are always cold this time of year. You know she likes the stripy ones? Made of wool?”

I did know this. I had bought Valerie a three-pack of new socks when I took her shopping in the January sales only the week before.

“She needs more socks? We bought some last week, remember?”

Scarlett took her glasses off. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, Marion, I'm a little distracted at the moment.”

I eyed the calculator next to her coffee mug. “Can you make it work?”

“I have to, sugar. I have to.”

I bumped into Grace as I left, on her way to catch the school bus. We walked toward the campsite exit together.

“Is your mum okay? She seems tired, and – I don't know – not quite herself.”

“What, even more annoying than usual?” Grace shrugged. “She's been staying up really late freaking out about money. She's just stressed. Either that or it's the menopause. That turned my ICT teacher into a zombie on steroids overnight.”

“Something to look forward to. Can I give you a lift to school?”

Grace sniffed. “Well, other than that I'd rather go to school wearing cling-film than be seen in your death-trap car, I am actually meeting a friend.”

I chose to tactfully ignore the fact that Grace's nose, beneath the silver stud, had gone pink. Then I saw the boy waiting at the bus stop fifty yards along the main road. I raised my eyebrows.

“Grow up, Marion. He's a friend.” She said the word slowly, like I was a small child.

“Of course he is.” I smiled, and waved at the boy just for fun.
“He looks like a very nice
friend.
I like his hair. And his jacket. And if he smiles at all his friends like that, well – ”

“If you say anything to Mum, I'll never make you a pair of shoes again!” Grace began hurrying down the grass verge, trying to go as fast as she could without it being obvious.

I grinned and backtracked to my car, resisting the urge to beep my horn as I drove past them huddling together at the bus stop.

 

I left the car in one of the city centre car parks and walked down to the Old Market Square, a large pedestrianized space surrounded by shops and pubs on three sides, the grand Council House on the other. It was simple to find the road that led from there to the Central Notts Library. I ducked inside, pausing to suck in a big, comfortable breath of familiar surroundings before I climbed the stairs to the local studies section on the first floor.

Two women stood behind the help desk. One of them showed me the filing cabinets where copies of old newspapers were kept on tiny rolls of film. She pointed out where I could find the
Nottingham Evening Post
, and I pulled out the boxes containing August and September 1981. I threaded the film through the spool and settled forwards in the chair, winding it on until the first page came into focus.

It had been a while since I used one of these machines, but it felt as familiar as tying my shoelaces. The library was far larger and busier than the one in Ballydown, but it still felt like an old friend to me: the rustle of other library users flicking through journals, the clicking of computer keyboards. I had forgotten how much I loved the warmth and the indoorsy atmosphere of libraries – how closed off and protected they are. Anything could be happening in the world outside these walls, but in here an oasis of calm prevails; the reassuring silence of strangers gathered to share a common goal of finding peace and space to browse and read, search and study. A library – the one place where talking is frowned on. What a safe haven for a recovering mute.

I got to work, scrolling through to the middle of the month, just before the date of the first festival, when I knew Henry Hatherstone
was still alive. It went quicker than I thought – the newspaper was a world away from anything you could read now. I found at least a dozen different stories on every front page. In the first edition I examined carefully, on the 26th August, a Wednesday, the biggest story involved a jug of water thrown over a judge during a court session investigating a riot. Page four informed readers of a local poetry evening at a village church. By page seven the news degenerated into the utterly uninteresting wedding of a local solicitor.

I knew that the trivial nature of the stories meant that although each edition covered a lot of ground, something as serious as the accidental death of a lord's son would make front page news. The main headlines for the subsequent two days covering a twelve-year-old boy burning a house down after he sneaked in “for a crafty fag”, and a family's slightly unpleasant coaching holiday, confirmed this opinion. But I didn't rush between front pages. I dilly-dallied in the world my father had inhabited, hung around in the petty trivia, the minute details of the Nottinghamshire he had known. I got lost in the people and places of his past, wondering if he had been at that concert, or played in that cricket match. The coverage of the festival was fun, and brief. It had only been a small affair in its first year, and so many faces crammed the photograph accompanying the story that his was a tiny smudge in a Robin Hood hat.

But on September's reel, on the third day of the month, the festival came up again: “LITTLE JOHN DIES IN SHOCK ACCIDENT”. Most of the front page, and the second and third, described how local lad, Henry Hatherstone, died after falling from the roof of an abandoned tower on his family's estate. Police were still investigating, but it looked as though a verdict of accidental death would result.

Crucially, the accident had two young witnesses: one named as Daniel Miller, the other a local girl of unknown identity. A couple of comments from local residents followed, both mentioning how much everyone loved Henry. A subsidiary column reported on the tower's dangerous state of disrepair. Many villagers had believed for
some time that an accident was inevitable. There had already been calls for the Hatherstones to make it safe or fence it off, particularly as everyone knew it to be a hang-out for teenagers looking for a place to meet up undisturbed.

I scrolled on, skipping through front pages now. In October I found a follow-up story. The tower had been proved structurally sound all except for the stone balustrade surrounding the roof, which had crumbled in certain places. Later on I read a brief report of the inquest findings. Henry had been drinking. It was a tragic accident. The family had no comment.

I felt unsure of what this meant for my mission to find out about my father. Did witnessing the death of his best friend amount to a reason for him to leave? Maybe. But to change his name? Keep his past totally hidden? Not keep in touch with, or even mention, any of his family again?

He had left England very soon after Henry died. The two incidents must have been connected. And now I had another piece of the puzzle to pick at. The other witness, the unnamed girl: who was she? Had she too fled the scene after the accident?

Somebody must know her identity. I only hoped that if – when – I managed to find her, she would be willing to tell me what had happened.

 

I sat in the blue caravan with Valerie, filling vases with pink and white roses for our latest money-making venture. Except for the school half-term week, February was usually our quietest month for bookings. Valerie had suggested trying out a Valentine's special, providing flowers and chocolates, champagne, and a fridge stocked with the makings of a luxury breakfast in bed. Scarlett had arranged a great deal with a local restaurant for dinner and we had provided maps of romantic forest walks, along with a voucher for a treatment at the nearest spa. Because it was Valerie's idea, she took charge of all the finishing touches, and I worked alongside as her assistant.

“Fifteen per cent of women buy themselves flowers on Valentine's Day.”

“Really? I wonder how many of them pretend the flowers are from a secret admirer.”

“We don't need to buy flowers. We can look through the window.”

“Absolutely. I love the snowdrops. A tiny shoot of hope poking through the snow.”

“Have you sent a card?”

“No. Have you?”

Valerie shook her head. “I'm waiting for the right man. I haven't met him yet; but if I do, I want to be available. And if I don't, that's okay too. Enough people love me already.”

“That's a pretty good attitude!”

Valerie shrugged. She stuck another pink rose into an already overstuffed vase. “No Man is a whole heap of trouble better than Wrong Man.”

“Sounds like something Scarlett would say.”

“She didn't have to. I've met Wrong Man. I didn't like him.”